Living at Tripp's ate him alive from the inside out and made him a shell of the man he used to be.
"Psst ... hey, George."
George looked up to see his friend, Hubert, standing there, green eyes smiling. George was in no mood for happiness. He turned away.
"I've got something that I think you need more than I do."
George sighed. "Unless it's golden brown with cr?me filling I suggest you leave me alone."
"And what if it is?"
"Then I would have to kiss you," George said slowly.
"Uck," Hubert snarled. Then he did something just short of a miracle. He pulled a square of cellophane from his robe and slipped it into George's hand. "A thank you will do."
"But ... how?" George stammered, and then remembering how quickly they could be found out, he unwrapped it with shaking fingers and shoved the golden cake into his mouth. He sat there for a moment, his eyes closed, his saliva glands in over-drive.
"Better?"
George nodded, feeling dizzy. "Thank you. You didn't have to."
"Oh yes, I did. I'm worried that you're not going to make it another six months in this place. I mean, look at you. You walk around here in a daze. You've got to snap out of it ... do something constructive with your time here."
"I'll tell you what I'd like to do," George squeezed the empty cellophane into a ball between his fingers. "I'd like to strangle that guy Marcus Tripp who started this whole goddamned backwards mess."
Hubert sighed. "I know. I think about how it all got like this sometimes. I think about how happy Marcus must have been to win the lawsuit against Quickie Burger for making him fat. And how happy the rest of the sheep who followed suit must have been when their lawsuits eventually shut down the restaurant business."
"Yeah, if only they could have known it would lead to this."
Hubert laughed bitterly. "Are you talking about the government banning obesity to end lawsuits against food manufacturers? Or are you talking about free will surviving in the form of pirated Twinkies?"
George had been released back into the weight-controlled population a week ago.
"Don't forget your monthly weigh-in or you'll end up right back here," the guard had warned.
"Sorry, don't think I'll be making that date," George said now, taking another mouthful of smuggled vodka. A nasty coughing fit gripped him and left him feeling dizzy and tired.
"What's the point?" he asked the glowing pearl. "If your life isn't yours, what's the point?"
The moon was mute. "Right," George said. "Exactly, there is no point."
He pushed himself off the wet grass. He needed to stay awake long enough to poison himself. After all, he didn't want to just wake up in the morning with the world's worst headache.
George stumbled up the hill and tripped over a set of tracks.
"Son of a..." he tried to still the spinning stars and focus on the bottle in his hand. "Ah," he cried triumphantly, "safe." He guzzled the remaining drink. "Good riddance." Before the lights of the oncoming train turned the corner, he was out.
George slowly opened his eyes. Why was he in a hospital bed? And then his last memories came flooding back-the hopelessness, the vodka, tripping over the train tracks ? damn, he was alive! Then slowly, another realization. He couldn't feel his legs. George pushed himself up with one arm, flipped off the sheet ... and screamed.
"Mr. Gomatos! Oh, Mr. Gomatos," a nurse cried as she rushed into the room. "It won't be so bad, you'll see. Lot's of people lead productive lives this way."
George stared at the two bandaged stumps a few inches below his hips.
"You're lucky to be alive. If the conductor hadn't seen you ... well, he just couldn't stop in time."
George passed out.
They kept him drugged for a few days and then he awoke again, experiencing the horror of his situation all over. A few days after that, he got another revelation.
The nurse had left his chart sitting on the table beside his bed. As he looked it over, something caught his eye.
Weight: 180 lbs.
"One hundred and eighty pounds?" That was wrong. How did he lose sixty pounds? And then suddenly, he looked at the empty space below his hips and he sat up with a start. He was no longer over-weight! It was a miracle. Pressing the nurse's button over and over he began to giggle to himself, not believing his luck.
"What? What is it?" the nurse asked, startled by the urgency of his beeping.
"Can I use the phone?" George was barely able to contain his excitement.
"Well, yes," she answered. "Of course, you're not in prison."
"Thank you," George whispered with tears in his eyes. "That is all."
She shrugged and left.
George scooted himself closer to the table so he could reach the phone. "Maybe there is a point after all," he nodded happily as he dialed 776.
Pure White
By Stephen Book https://powderburnsandbullets.blogspot.com
Before she could change her mind, Rebecca laid the can on the floor and opened it. A sharp acrylic smell hit her senses in an instant, and she breathed in deep like it was a bouquet of freshly picked roses instead of a gallon of paint. Within an hour, the fumes would permeate the whole house. And that was a good thing. The place needed a change.
She reached down and grabbed a paint stick. Stirring the contents probably wasn't necessary. She'd only left the hardware store an hour ago. But wasn't this what she needed to do? Her mind searched through the countless hours spent watching television shows like "This Old House" and "Trading Spaces." Even if they had just come from the store, the TV hosts always carried paint sticks. And why would they, unless the paint needed to be stirred? Rebecca nodded as she worked the paint. Yes, this was what she needed to do.
Her husband Tim told her the home improvement shows were a waste of time. They were nothing but a bunch of losers who couldn't keep jobs in the real world, he said, adding a tired analogy: Those who can do; those who can't, teach.
"Well if it weren't for the teachers," she said, "we would all be nowhere, wouldn't we?" Tim walked away, muttering that she could stay in her fantasy world if that helped, but don't expect him to sign up. After four years of marriage, expecting anything meaningful from Tim had become a fantasy.
From the store bag, she grabbed a metal tray and set it on the floor. She then picked up the can and tilted it. The paint flowed down like syrup, folding over itself and spreading out in all directions. She grabbed a roller, pushed it through the paint. Finally, she streamed the first ribbon of Pure White over the wall.
A year ago, if anyone had asked what colors she wanted, Rebecca would have rattled off a wide array of dressed-up names like River Mist and Rain Dance and of course her personal favorite at the time: Cincinnatian Hotel Abbey. She wasn't sure what it meant, or how exactly that shade of blue correlated to any hotel in Cincinnati, but the name had inspired images of happier times and better days. How could anyone go wrong with that?
Up and down, side-to-side, the roller made a sound like someone tearing apart two strips of Velcro. Rebecca never thought about it that way before. Then again, before this last year, she had never thought about how many things in life sounded. The fractured sound of words like abruption and premature delivery and hemorrhaging. The stark finality of a word like hysterectomy. Or how about the disorienting shockwave accompanying a doctor's announcement that he's sorry to inform you, but ...
Rebecca stopped for a moment and rubbed a forearm against the base of her nose.
"No," she said. Her voice echoed against the walls. She stabbed the roller into the tray. "Not today."
After she finished the first wall, Rebecca wondered if she had purchased enough paint to complete the work. While the white did a good job, it failed to cover over everything. Images of tigers and giraffes and elephants lingered like ghostly shadows from another time.
A sense of dread washed over at the thought of going back to the store and facing the sales clerk again. It's one t
hing to be a bitch when the mood hits you. It's quite another when you have to return for help. When she had requested the paint, the clerk-a young college kid by the looks of him-asked what kind of white she wanted. He then spit out the names of various shades like he had invented them. Did she want Antique? Or how about Eggshell? Oh, and then there's French Vanilla. You know, like the ice cream? She cut him off. If she'd wanted any of that crap, she would have asked for it. All she needed was a simple can of white, the purest they had. Something as strong as ivory and as sterile as bleach. The clerk snapped his mouth shut and looked at her for a beat. Then he grabbed the two cans she asked for.
Rebecca shook her head. Sure, the guy was only trying to help. But she didn't need help. She didn't want anyone's words of wisdom or their suggestions on what to do. There had been too much of that already, especially from her good-ol'-expect-nothing-from-me husband. It was time to move on, he'd said. Stop dwelling on what couldn't be changed. She said that she was dealing with her loss-their loss-as best as she could, no thanks to him. If he didn't like it, or couldn't find it in his heart to give her some support, then he could get the hell out.
Rebecca finished the other walls and took stock of her paint. Beyond the mural, everything else had covered over nicely. She would have enough to finish the room after all. Then, maybe in a week or two, or possibly even a month, she would step out to the storage shed and figure out what to do with the crib and the bags of clothes.
She laid down the roller and walked toward the kitchen for a much needed break. Along the way, she stopped at another doorway. Once the nursery-now guest room-had been repainted, her bedroom would be next.
Reflection
RJ Keller https://rjkeller.wordpress.com/
An eight-year-old boy saunters down the street, smiling proudly, armed with a powerful new weapon, a gift from his father the evening before.
He slips open the schoolyard gate and surveys the crowd with his sharp, green eyes, so like his daddy's: Girls skipping rope; boys shooting hoops; teachers chatting amongst themselves, tired and bored. And, sitting by himself, leaning against a solitary tree, reading a book, is his target.
He makes his way over, fists stuffed tightly into his pockets, twitching to keep the grin off his face until just the right moment. He comes to a stop directly in front a pair of white, spotless shoes, rolling the weapon around his tongue, savoring the jagged consonants and tangy vowels. His father's voice echoes in his ears as he lets loose his grin, pulls the trigger, and fires the word directly into his target's fragile, tender heart:
"Faggot!"
Rough Trade
Stephen Nicholson https://stephennicholson.blogspot.com/
"Unhh," I cursed under my breath and muffled a yelp.
I'd whacked my knee on a decorative stone that read Peggy's Paradise in chiseled grooves as I crawled through the landscape of the house overlooking my target. I stopped, rubbed the banged spot and listened for any responses from inside.
Silence.
It was so late it was early. A three a.m. wake-up for me, followed by a traverse through grab happy woods. This final creep through the open perimeter of the lawn had to be done in the dark. Only one cluster of rose bushes in the manicured landscape offered a true vantage spot with enough cover to pull off the hit.
Clearly, this was younger man's work.
My elbows hurt from the struggle. My mind was dusty from the lack of caffeine, and now I'd have a nice bruise to show for my efforts.
The rifle I'd brought slid from my shoulder. I nestled the butt into the crook of my arm, settled into position and poked the barrel through a couple of thorny branches, focused on my objective.
Through the sniper's scope I picked through my target area; back doorway, patio, unkempt little yard. I settled on a spot next to the back steps.
And waited.
Four forty-seven a.m.
The back porch-light blazed. The door squeaked open. My objective walked out, crossed the patio and made his way to the lawn. He circled the area, stopped for a moment then trotted back toward the entrance, stopping at the stairs.
My finger squeezed the feather-light trigger until the hammer dropped.
Thwwpp. The weapon's suppressor powdered the air.
"Brawwrreeghh!" the victim wailed.
One shot.
Prone, ghostly, I waited and watched.
Nothing came alive in the neighborhood.
I began the slow journey back.
***
Later, in my office, I was enjoying an extra large cup of coffee and my second, well-deserved chocolate donut when the phone rang.
"Kibbles and Hits," I said.
I listened to the caller's introduction, and then jotted down his problem. "You're moving? Wife's crazy for the animal ? uh, huh ? little dog-a real monster ? bites children, craps on the carpet ? uh, huh ? got it."
He sighed when I told him my fee, but after a moment of silence, agreed to pay.
I smiled. Most of my clients had similar reactions, especially the ones with the purebreds. A big expense going in, even bigger to take them out.
The poor fellow had one last request.
I listened, paused.
"Of course I can make it look like an accident," I said.
Running on the Iron Rooster
By Michael J. Solender https://notfromhereareyou.blogspot.com/
I didn't much fancy losing either of my pinkies to Toshi, the Yakuza owner of my $30,000.00 gambling markers.
"I need a big favor, pal-sie." Toshi told me. "My face is too familiar at Russian customs right now and I need to get some cargo to Irkutsk. You take care of this for me, and you're debt free plus you get a special bonus."
It didn't occur to me to ask what the three jump drives Toshi then handed me contained. I simply agreed. Nor did I argue when he told me I wouldn't be flying but rather taking the train, the Tran-Siberian from Khabarovsk to Irkutsk.
Sixteen hours later I was in a tourist berth on the Rossiya, jerking out of the murky, charmless Khabarovsk station with the tiny jump drives in my money belt tucked inside my baggy drawers.
Several hours in, an earsplitting scream interrupted the rhythmic chukka-chukka of the train and jarred me from the daydream hypnosis I had willingly yielded to. I looked to the end of the car at the bench below the samovar and saw our provodnita, the car attendant, was alternatively screaming and laughing hysterically. An amorous Buryat was practically sitting in her lap and gnawing on her ear, his right hand buried deep between her legs.
I needed some cigarettes and could tell by the 30 minute interval on the schedule that Belogorsk would offer more than an isolated platform where mail and other freight would be offloaded from the rear cars of the Iron Rooster.
At the station, the morning sun half illuminated the platform, which was filled with babushka clad, gap toothed ladies in heavy woolen coats. I dipped into my money belt for a few rubles to pay for my cigarettes and began to panic when I realized one of the jump drives I had been entrusted to deliver was missing.
The panic that turned to terror when I thought I'd lost one of Toshi's Irkutsk-bound jump drives subsided when I realized the missing data receptacle had embedded itself into the lining of my money belt. Yakuza boys don't take kindly to couriers who fail to discharge their duties. My pinkies on each hand feeling momentarily secure, I let myself fade to sleep upon re-boarding.
The train pitched as it arrested coming into Magdagachy. I got off for a quick smoke and saw an uncharacteristically stylish woman of about 30 getting on to one of the First Class compartments. She was sable sleek in her tight designer jeans, oversized shades, a chestnut brown and white fur and she was carrying a large Gucci bag.
An hour later, I caught my foot on the ill designed connector bridge between rail cars and hurled forward only to have my fall broken by landing smack into the arms and billowy bosom of the cream colored woman I had seen board the train. She half laughed and mumbled something in Russian then quickly realiz
ed I was American. "You're not too fleet of foot are you?" she asked in flawless English.
"Please let me make it up to you with a drink in the lounge car?" I asked, cringing at my own lame come on but hoping none-the-less she'd agree.
"I don't like the view there." She purred, "Come up to my car, I'm very bored and want to practice my English."
Discreetely feeling at my money belt to make sure my contraband was still safely in place I said, "I'd be delighted, my name is Jason, Jason Frazier."
"I'm Lyudmila." Her eyes darted furtively up and down my disheveled form. I'm sure I was a sight, I hadn't planned on chasing skirt on this trip, but opportunity was knocking.
The beefy provodnita who had shooed me away in my repeated earlier attempts to penetrate the First Class cars was now serving me tea with milk and honey in Lyudmila's private berth. It was perfectly appointed with fresh tulips, crisp table linen, assorted tinned shortbread and chocolates. Her laptop was open on the fold-down table, the tubular screen saver making exotic geometric designs in perfect rhythm to voice of the chucking train.
"I must excuse myself for a moment" Lyudmila informed me an hour and three cups of tea into our conversation, "I need to pee."
The content of the jump drives in my money belt had not entered my consciousness for almost a week. My curiosity suddenly awakened, I impulsively thrust one of the drives into the USB port on Lyudmila's laptop just as she was returning to the curtain drawn berth.
Lyudmila cocked her head at a bemused angle and pursed her lips in wonderment as I tried to wrestle the drive from the USB port from her laptop. "Please let me help you," she said, "I know you don't understand Russian and our keyboards are different, you'll have quite a time navigating on my PC."
She had the single file on the drive open in a flash, it was a multi-tabbed excel workbook with reams of data under oddly named headers like dosage, white cell count, and capacity.
"This is clinical trials data," she said in the most matter of fact way, "Biotech firms spend big money on this stuff."
My face froze as I got off the train in Irkutsk and saw Toshi, holder of my gambling markers and amputator of small digits, in the arrival hall with several of his Japanese tomodachi.
Flash Fiction 40 Anthology - July 2009 Page 6